If she had never known it surely that would have been better? Could it be possible that naivety was ultimately superior to experience? Had it never happened, she could still wonder about it, dream of love and all its raptures, aspire to feel the exquisite singularity that is love’s finest gift; discover less painfully that the consequence of confessed emotion can be far more terrifying than anything a fantasy could stir.
Secretly she wore the scar gladly, for vulnerability comes in many forms. Constantly she picked at its surface, fearing that if ever properly healed, it might feel as if love had never been and that would be worse than death, or so she thought. No, it would not have been better had it never happened.
To love a man such as he had an extraordinarily high price. She revelled in the sufferance, embracing martyrdom, perversely secure in the knowledge that she would never again find another worthy of her slightest attention. Sacrifice certainly, obsession maybe, but what a gift, to live in such reverence of another that her own life was a mere triviality. How easy that made self-pity and self-indulgence, justifying the glimpses of suicide and murder that fleetingly took her thoughts. He was her opiate, her crutch, her God: everything she hoped for and dreamed of required this man, and for the multitude of things she resented he remained entirely blameless. What other human could ever compete with such an idol, what space inside her could there ever be? Yet in so many ways he was not a man at all. Many considered him a freak, a cruel imitation of a human being, unnatural and to be feared or loathed, or both. Some, like her, admired his unique magnificence and were awed by the animal he could so easily be. But only she was able to love him for himself and only she had been truly loved in return.’
‘You might regret doing that,’ Boyce said, as he strolled by. He did this often, appearing from nowhere to remark on work he had not properly read yet seemed compelled to try and influence.
Bee startled.
‘Two documents, one with it, one without. Or at least save it on its own.’
Her finger moved away from the delete button and did as he suggested.
‘Fancy some lunch?’ He was putting on his coat, an old beige mac, evidently planning to go with or without her.
‘Sure, why not. I need a break.’
‘Always so busy with your book. When do I get my article?’
Bee smiled. ‘Okay boss, it’s nearly ready.’
‘Lucky you’re sleeping with the editor,’ he smiled back, affectionately.
‘And living with the proprietor,’ she added. ‘of a fine magazine.’ Bee opened a window in an effort to decide which coat to take. Boyce was prepared for rain, but she had a new green duffle coat begging to be worn.
It was a grey morning. Thin cloud hung still and low. A light drizzle drifted down so slowly it might have felt Christmassy had it been snow, but winter was yet to come and the air was soft and mild. Across from the house and dotted throughout the valley, domes of horse-chestnut trees lay bare, the earliest to reveal life in spring and the first to litter the ground in autumn. Clusters of lime and maple marked the season brightly, their colours lightly diluted under the blanket dampness of the day. Throughout, near-brown leaves clung to young and ancient oaks alike, as if waiting for a suitable wind to carry them off, the serenity of the season a fleeting pleasure.
The house Ian Boyce and Bee Malone shared was a modestly large Georgian building, the former Manor of a once less prosperous district. Approached from one direction it gave the impression of isolation and remoteness, located as it was in a secluded valley, but from the other it was only a short drive or good walk to the nearest village and not much further to the town. It had been a lucky purchase that began as a worrying financial stretch but proved to be a shrewd choice, perfect in every respect except the size of the plot, which, in Bee’s opinion, would always be a disappointing defect. Somewhere in history, the house had lost substantial grounds to the rear and with it a degree of aesthetic balance so that proportionately it now echoed modern McMansions looming large over postage stamp sized pockets of grass. The natural surroundings tempered the effect. What little remained at the back had been transformed into a narrow but elegant terrace, an area from which to view lost territory and gaze up at the rising farmland beyond. At the front and side, a cottage garden rambled, overlooking what was for Bee arguably the most captivating aspect of the house: the view of the valley.
Beyond the dry-stone wall at the front and over the narrow road, across the lush vale and amongst the trees on the far side, lay another property, surrounded by well-kept grounds and nestling neatly into the hillside. Kinsman Hall. Its ancient grandeur made Bee’s home look like nothing more than a fancy potting shed, and Bee loved to sit quietly on a window seat or out on the old iron bench, and look across at it. Who might have lived there? What might they have done with their lives?
For the six years since graduation, Bee and Boyce had lived together in this stone house that had taken so much time and effort to restore, and for the last three had worked together creating a magazine in an effort to fulfil Boyce’s dreams before they dissolved into the middle age complacency he claimed lay ahead. Bristol University had been fun, difficult and often wild, but Bee emerged unscathed into his waiting arms. At the time, it had not seemed as if he was deliberately trying to tarnish the experience, but nevertheless he had. He’d struggled to show interest in, or even tolerance for, the sorts of activities pursued and when he gave up trying succeeded only in making himself more of a burden. Bee hadn’t taken much notice because at the time she was besotted with him. But as her mother had so wisely predicted, he had aged her prematurely and as time rolled on so her friends fell away as his friends became their friends and his life became hers.
The one friendship that did endure caused more arguments than either would care to admit. As expected, Tuan was a highly successful, if not eccentric, personality and since recovering from his breakdown had rekindled many friendships from earlier days. Thanks to technology, he was never very far from Bee. Boyce hated it. From time to time she would head off to London to see him and, being no fool, Boyce would smile and wish her a safe trip. He knew this was a far better strategy for securing her fidelity than shouting unfounded accusations. He was well aware that finger pointing repeated sufficiently had a habit of mutating into fact; his own parents had followed that particular poorly paved path. Once, and only once, at the beginning, after Boyce felt he had already tolerated her absence enough – three times – he’d tried stopping her. Her absolute refusal to listen fed his stubbornness. Then she had misjudged the character of his insistence and laughed. This had been a mistake. It forced from him the shameful side of his nature that he blamed on his father. But she headed to London anyway. And still she was going there. Regularly.
*
Happy to head out for lunch, Bee climbed into the car coat-less and smiled half-heartedly at Boyce. He was handsome and successful, but where once the months between visits to London flew by in a wonderful whirlwind of work and life, energetic days and cosy nights, parties and plays, cinema with friends, those times were beginning to feel more like lonely interludes to be silently endured. And it wasn’t simply that they were going out less. The spark between her and Boyce was faltering, and without it life at home felt too solitary. Life in London was fun.
Looking at him in the driver’s seat, Bee wondered if there was someway to rekindle what she once felt. She wondered if she should arrange a short break for them both, after she had been to London again.
‘What are you thinking about?’ he asked.
‘Oh nothing much, I thought I might go and see Tuan for a few days next week, if that’s okay. He’s launching a new line.’ She said it casually as she clipped her seat belt. ‘Then maybe you and I could go away somewhere? If you’re not too busy.’
Boyce started the engine. ‘I’m not sure about you going, Bee. I need you here next week. I’ve made arrangements for you to interview that new MP while he tours some of the old crappy
housing estates. Claims he’ll give people decent places to live, but don’t they all.‘
‘Can’t you do it?’
‘No. I’m in Glasgow, so I need you here. This is a big story for us, Bee, interviewing a government minister at this level is pretty special.’
Bee could hear the soggy hiss of rolling tyres, as the car trundled off of the patch of ground beside the lane that they used for parking and along the damp lane; fine silt splattering. After a few hundred yards she let out a long breath, ‘God. Speed up, Grandpa. It’s like driving with Pappy.’
‘Oh yeah? And since when did you become a speed freak? The road’s greasy because it’s been dry for so long. Bloody hell, if I said that to you, you would go mad.’
Boyce had stopped Bee driving his car, now only lending it for work.
She looked away, across the valley. The words to come were cheerful enough but were carried by a distracted melancholy, ‘Only because I’m a good driver and you’re rubbish. I’ll buy you a hat if you like, and some driving gloves to complete the picture.’
‘You sound like a right misery.’
‘Do I? I’m hungry.’
‘So you’ll stay?’
‘When.’
‘Next week.’
‘Is there no one else that can do it? What about what’s-her-face?’
‘Paula?’
‘Yes. Paula.’
‘No. I need you. Come on Bee, you have to show some commitment to the magazine otherwise we’ll never get anywhere. Things are just picking up for us, we’d be stupid to muck up now.’
‘I show plenty of commitment, thank you very much. What time did you come to bed last night? I didn’t finish work yesterday, let alone go to bed. I finished today, at three in the morning to be precise.’
‘That’s the nature of the business.’
She tutted, resentfully, ‘Fine. What days do you need me?’
Boyce visibly relaxed, ‘Monday and Tuesday, maybe half of Wednesday.’
Bee brightened. ‘Oh. Well that’s not so bad. Tuan’s big day is on Thursday. Good, that’s settled then.’ She turned away again, looking from side window, wiping away building condensation, ‘Look, a deer!’
‘You could just not go, for a change. You’ll need to write it up pretty sharpish, you know.’
‘He’s my friend. It’s a big event.’
‘I know he’s your friend, how could I forget? But what about me? I need you here.’
‘I can fit it in. Stop worrying.’
‘You seem very keen to see him, all of a sudden.’
Bee turned her gaze, inspecting the side of Boyce’s head as he drove, the short, clipped sideburns. ‘Not all of a sudden. You know he’s my friend and how far we go back. You of all people should understand.’
‘Yes I do know you go back along way, I was there for some of it, wasn’t I?’
‘Ian, what’s going on? I thought we’d sorted this out ages ago. You’re being funny with me and I don’t understand why.’
He reached over and squeezed her fingers, ‘Bee. I know he’s your friend. And…okay… if you must go… then fine.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It’s just…’
‘What?’
He looked at her from the corner of his eye and began to grin, ‘Could you pop to Jermyn Street while you’re there? All my nice shirts are threadbare.’
Bee laughed, ‘Of course. Just give me a list.’
‘But Bee…’
‘Hmm?’
‘Just don’t give me cause. I mean… don’t ruin things…’
‘Ian, I love you, you idiot.’ She picked up his hand from where it rested on the gear lever, and kissed it.
*
The dimness of the pub interior was brightened by the orange glow of a roaring fire. Bee shivered although she was not cold, and bemoaned the fact there were no free tables available. Heavy rain suddenly lashed hard against the windows, thunder rumbling distantly.
‘Just be glad we’re inside, Bee,’ Boyce said. ‘Thirty seconds ago we were out there in the car park. We’d be drenched. Look at it.’
‘I know. Just as well we didn’t walk.’
‘Come on, let’s eat at the bar,’ he suggested.
They perched on high stools and Bee picked up a discarded newspaper, half folded with a ring of beer drying on it. At the top of the front page a small picture of Tuan advertised the fashion section, but on opening she discovered the segment itself was missing. She realised Boyce was watching.
‘Never mind, you’ll see him soon enough.’
‘Who?’
‘Tuan.’ Boyce ordered a drink before continuing, ‘So, you have my article for me? Nearly?’
‘Yep. I’ll have it on your desk by the end of the day, Boss.’ Bee smiled, looking happy to be snug in a pub with Ian Boyce on a rainy Friday afternoon. ‘Order some food, shall we?’
‘You’re the one who is starving.’ Boyce stroked her arm, ‘Bee, I do love you too, you know that, right? I mean, I know I don’t say it enough, but I hope it shows.’
‘Yes. I know.’ Bee glanced at the newspaper and then back to Boyce, ‘Tuan and me. We’re just friends. I’d never do that to you. That’s not who I am.’
He kissed her and smiled, ‘Order some food.’
*
By the time they left the rain had passed leaving vast muddy puddles and dripping foliage, but no sunshine twinkled. Everything had taken on the flatness that in such weather comes long before dusk, a muted dulling prematurely declaring the approaching end of the day. At home, Bee made them both a cup of tea and each went to their respective computers. Tired from too much food and wine and warmth they discussed doing nothing but decided neither could afford the time.
Bee observed that the guilt felt whilst driving under the influence of alcohol had slipped easily from Boyce with the successful completion of the journey. They might have made it home, but the alcohol had taken its toll in other ways. Even though the lunch was pleasant and friendly, there had been niggling and argumentative remarks in the car, culminating in a claim from Boyce that it would be easier to compete with a dead person than with Tuan. Bee had objected, and so Boyce summed up his feelings by saying he definitely would prefer a dead rival, or at least, that his rival was dead. Once free of the confines of the car, the bickering had died away.
Apparently unable to concentrate, Boyce began wandering the house, despite his pledge to work. Half-heartedly he typed a few words every now and then, intermittently passing behind Bee as she typed her own. Eventually, the afternoon moved into early evening and he asked if she were hungry.
‘Not really, but I could eat if you’d like to. There’s some Bolognese in the freezer. Pour me a wine would you? I’m nearly finished here but could you bring it in? I think I need to feed what I’ve already drunk before it makes me feel yuk.’
Boyce did as Bee asked and then pottered around the kitchen until she finally appeared, wearily proffering an empty glass. ‘You could have told me it was such hard work,’ she said.
He looked puzzled.
‘All those years ago, you could have warned me that this was what it was going to be like writing for a living.’
‘I expect I did, and I doubt you cared, knowing you.’
He put her glass to one side, even though she clearly wanted another drink. From the fridge he scooped a bottle of Champagne and two chilled glasses, placing all on the kitchen table where several candles burned.
‘What’s all this?’ she asked, smiling. ‘Champagne for spag bol?’
For a few brief moments Boyce looked at her, before moving closer, gently smoothing her hair from her face, ‘Let’s have a baby. Hmm?’
‘Do you mean ‘make babies’? Like children say.’ She smiled.
‘You know I don’t mean that… well…not just that.’ His voice was low and quiet, ‘I mean exactly what I said. Let’s have a baby. And yes, we’ll have to make it, of course.’ He kissed her forehead,
tenderly. ‘A baby would be fantastic. I want children. I want us to have children.’
She stepped back.
‘We could get married. If you want.’
‘Ian…’ Bee sat down on the nearest stool, hands cradled on the table.
‘You don’t want to?’
‘Which bit?’ she asked, looking pale.
‘All of it. Babies. Marriage. I don’t care about the order, but I do want to have a family. I’m not getting any younger. I want a kid… with you, I mean.’ His voice had lost its softness.
‘I’m just so surprised. It’s not that I don’t want to, it’s just you asking this way, so suddenly, asking now after all this time, it seems to have come from nowhere.’ She shook her head, ‘I was happy… am happy… just as we are. Aren’t you? You have never once expressed any interest in having children. I sort of assumed one day I might have to persuade you, not that you would ask me. Not like this.’
‘Of course I want children. Come on Bee, we need this. Let’s do the whole thing, marriage, a baby… no, not just one baby, babies… We’re not getting any younger.’
‘You’re not. I’m only twenty-eight.’
Boyce put the Champagne back in the fridge and took a beer instead, ‘Fine! Forget I said anything.’
‘Don’t be like that.’
‘For Christ’s sake I thought you’d be happy. Isn’t this what most women your age dream of? I thought we were really making a go of things here.’
‘That’s not fair. You took me by surprise, that’s all. You idiot. Of course I’ll marry you, I just thought… well… I feel married anyway so it seemed a bit of an odd thing to ask. Didn’t you think that it was for life? All of this? Because I did.’
‘Of course I did, just be nice to formalise it.’ He pulled her up from the chair and held her tightly, ‘And a baby?’
She drew a long breath, ‘As long as you do your fair share. I want to keep working.’
He picked her up and pressed a long kiss to her mouth, ‘How about we make a start on that baby, Misses Boyce?’ He slipped a hand up inside the back of her shirt.